2006-08-23 14:23:33 ET
Come on, doc! You gotta let me go onstage! The kids are crying for an encore! Can't you hear them out there? MORE LESTER! MORE LESTER! MORE LESTER!
That's enough, you sick fuck. You can bugger all in prison but right now I'm taking you in. They're calling for you alright. Calling for your genitals to be singed off. MOLESTER, they yell. MOLESTER.
2006-08-23 14:16:20 ET
He had killed her and used a hacksaw to cut her in half across her waist. It wasn't out of spite, or greed, or jealousy, or anything like that. He simply suspected her to be a host for a convent of parasitic worms. Perhaps just ordinary tapeworms or may be even ones of the gordian variety. The latter is why he had kept her for three days away from water before he killed her and opened her up. He couldn't risk the worms getting out and possibly invading him. He saw what they could do to crickets. To cats. To his dog. The horrors of what they could do to him...
He had to know. So he opened her up all wild like.
He was calm at first, taking his time, thinking himself some amateur surgeon. Just pretend you've done this thousands of times, he said to himself in hope of conjuring up a glimmer of false confidence and to transmute it into some sort of substitutionary experience. A thousand times before. But his knife was no scalpel and human flesh is like the toughest of leather. Eventually all attempts at grace failed and he just cut in deep out of anger and frustration. Angry and still cutting away even as the two halves fell away from each other. Interestingly there was little blood. But he remembered that the heart had stopped a day ago and there was no life pulsing through those veins. And no sign of the worms. May be they were hiding somewhere else. Still within her but away from the torso. Yes, that must be it. They had heard him struggling and hating the body and attempted to seek refuge in the extremities. Worms can be so thin. My god, he thought, they could even be in her fingers! This was more work then he realized. Enough for a week's worth, possibly. And he had work tomorrow. Fuck. May be he should have listened to himself earlier, when he had suggested to himself that burning the body would be the best choice. But then he'd have no proof of the worms and it'd be all for naught. Yes, this was too important. The horses would have to wait. And he would need a chainsaw.
2006-08-23 14:01:53 ET
Johnson! What is the meaning of this... this INSOLENCE?!? How dare you not come in yesterday?!? You had better have a good excuse!
Well, Mister Griffin. Sir. It's like this. I've caught the 24-hour Ebola.
::ALL WORK STOPS. PEOPLE SIT UP IN THEIR SEATS AROUND THE OFFICE AND LET OUT A CASCADE OF SHOCKED GASPS. EVEN MISTER DIFFIN GRIFFIN IS STUNNED. WITHIN SECONDS HE REALIZES THAT HE IS SHOWING HIS SHOCK AND QUICKLY ATTEMPTS TO REGAIN HIS COMPOSURE::
Johnson... well... good thing you came in today... yes... it's busy... you need to close the McCunty account... they called yesterday... that... that is a nice suit, Johnson!
::HE BRINGS HIS HAND FORWARD, EXPECTING A HANDSHAKE. JOHNSON COMPLIES. THEY SHAKE AND GRIFFIN, NOW PRETENDING TO BE A FRIEND FOR SAFETY'S SAKE SLAPS JOHNSON ON THE SHOULDER. THE SHOCK HAS NOW BEEN FULLY REPLACED BY AN IMPERVIOUS SUIT OF CONFIDENCE. HE IS GRINNING::
That is a damn fine suit, if I may say so, Johnson! That's what I like in an employee! A strong grip and a fine suit! What is that, burgundy?
::JOHNSON LOOKS DOWN, UNEASY, AND LOOKS BACK UP::
It's white, sir. I seem to have bled all over it.
|I don't know what this is.|
2006-08-23 13:54:03 ET
Don't forget, kids. Nowadays everything (no matter how miniscule) can be traced back to you. That's right. Even the hippo fucking. Now don't spill no tears. I know what you're going to say - how can something that feels so right ever be considered wrong? Well let me tell you, when you're thrusting your hamburger meat inbetween those two sandpaper hemispheres that make up the hippo's large, water-balanced ass understand that you're fucking the last, great intelligent species on Earth.
Intelligence is an interspecies venereal disease.
Please. Don't fuck the hippos.
P.S. This means you too, Lucy!
P.P.S. Squirrels make for safer sex.
|Probably needs a rewrite.|
2006-08-23 05:55:05 ET
Little Tim sat on the edge of the cliff with the calm of the ocean wave whispers below and gazed at the starry ocean sky with his oversized binoculars. As he slowly scanned the perforated heavens he caught glimpse of a large zeppelin, far up above, painted a rich green color. It was dropping flares, little sparks of flame, away from itself like a mother releasing its young. Little Tim smiled. It was beautiful. He had no way of knowing that a plague had spread upon the emerald air ship and that the crew was desperately cremating the victims and throwing them overboard while they still burned for faint hope of stopping the spread of crimson infection...
2006-08-21 23:22:53 ET
He had solved Zeno's paradox while falling out of the twenty third story window. It's funny how clear things get when they pertain to you. Take his impending death at the face of the pavement - it was inevitable. He wasn't really moving towards it, he was simply making it more and more likely to happen. There are no halfway points. There are only odds. And the whole situation was quite odd. After all he had no intention of dying. It's just that, in his half-awake sleep state, he had managed to pick the wrong door for the bathroom. Oh, well, he figured, I can piss myself if I'm dead. I'm allowed.
2006-08-21 23:22:44 ET
He woke up and looked at the clock and, with a start, realized that the sun had forgot to come up. He rolled over and hit the switch on his radio and was greeted by uneventful silence. Puzzled, he got up, got dressed, and ventured outside to ask his neighbors if they knew anything about what was going on. Only there was no neighbors, he found out. There was no anybody. It was as if the night had swallowed all men and taken the sun hostage. And it was getting colder and colder each minute.
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